Human, All-Too-Human, Part II

Human, All-Too-Human: A Book for Free Spirits, Part 2 by Nietzsche

---

In so far he is an impostor. He practises his frauds on pure ignoramuses, and that is why he succeeds. They praise him for his deep, genuine knowledge, and lead him finally into the delusion that he really knows as much as the individual experts and creators, yes, even as the great world-spinners themselves. In the end, the impostor becomes honest, and actually believes in his own sincerity.

All that is generally called reality, the poets, conscious of this power, proceed with intention to disparage and to distort into the uncertain, the illusory, the spurious, the impure, the sinful, sorrowful, and deceitful. They make use of all doubts about the limits of knowledge, of all sceptical excesses, in order to spread over every- thing the rumpled veil of uncertainty.

For they desire that when this darkening process is complete their wizardry and soul-magic may be accepted without hesitation as the path to " true truth " and " real reality. Schopenhauer, whose profound under- standing of what is human and all-too-human and original sense for facts was not a little impaired by the bright leopard-skin of his metaphysic the skin must first be pulled off him if one wants to find the real moralist genius beneath Schopenhauermakes this admirable distinction, wherein he comes far nearer the mark than he would himself dare to ad- mit: Philosophic brains will accordingly be distinguished, from others by their disbelief in the metaphysical' significance of morality.

This must create between the two kinds of brain a gulf of a depth and un- bridgeableness of which the much-deplored gulf between "cultured " and " uncultured " scarcely gives a conception. It is true that many back doors, which the " philosophic brains," like Schopenhauer's own, have left for themselves, must be recognised as useless. None leads into the open, into the fresh air of the free will, but every door through which people had slipped hitherto showed behind it once more the gleaming brass wall of fate.

For we are in a prison, and can only dream of freedom, not make ourselves free. That the recognition of this fact cannot be resisted much longer is shown by the despairing and incredible postures and grimaces of those who still press against it and continue their wrestling-bout with it. Their attitude at present is something like this: And all is full of guilt and the consciousness of guilt? But some one must be the sinner. Here is free will: It would be quite horrible if it were anything more than a logical pose, a hideous grimace of the underlying thought, perhaps the death-convulsion of the heart that seeks a remedy in its despair, the heart to which delirium whispers: Hence the philosopher must say, like Christ, " Judge not," and the final distinction between the philo- sophic brains and the others would be that the former wish to be just and the latter wish to be judges.

You hold that sacrifice Is the hall- mark of moral action? Just consider whether in every action that is done with deliberation, in the best as in the worst, there be not a sacrifice. One must know the best and the worst that a man is capable of in theory and in practice before one can judge how strong his moral nature is and can be. But this is an experiment that one can never carry out. Whetherwe have a serpent's tooth or not we cannot know before some one has set his heel upon our necks.

A wife or a mother could say: Our character is determined more by the absence of certain ex- periences than by the experiences we have under- gone. We forget and purposely banish from our minds a good deal of our past. In other words, we wish our picture, that beams at us from the past, to belie us, to flatter our vanity we are constantly engaged in this self-deception. And you who talk and boast so much of " self- oblivion in love," of the " absorption of the ego in the other person " you hold that this is something different? It seems to me that those who hide something of themselves from themselves, or hide their whole selves from themselves, are alike committing a theft from the treasury of knowledge.

It is clear, then, against what transgression the maxim "Know thyself" is a warning. He who denies his own vanity usually possesses it in so brutal a form that he instinctively shuts his eyes to avoid the necessity of despising himself. To those arguments of our adversary against which our head feels too weak our heart replies by throwing suspicion on the motives of his arguments. An art that points out and glorifies the exceptional cases of morality where the good becomes bad and the unjust just should rarely be given a hearing: The only decisive argument that has always deterred men from drinking a poison is not that it is deadly, but that it has an unpleasant taste.

If men only committed such deeds as do not give rise to a bad conscience, the human world would still look bad and rascally enough, but not so sickly and pitiable as at present. Enough wicked men without conscience have existed at all times, and many good honest folk lack the feeling of pleasure in a good conscience.

It is more convenient to follow one's conscience than one's intelligence, for at every failure conscience finds an excuse and an encouragement in itself. That is why there are so many conscientious and so few intelligent people. One temperament finds it useful to be able to give vent to its disgust in words, being made sweeter by speech. Another reaches its full bitterness only by speaking out: To get bed-sores is unpleasant, but no proof against the merits of the cure that prescribes that you should take to your bed.

Men who have long lived outside themselves, and have at last devoted themselves to the inward philosophic life, know that one can also get sores of character and intellect. This, again, is on the whole no argument against the chosen way of life, but necessitates a few small exceptions and apparent relapses. By an excess of effort they win leisure for them- selves, and then they can do nothing with it but count the hours until the tale is ended. Is not a man fairly well described, when we are told that he likes to walk between tall fields of golden corn: Yes, something of the man is described herewith, but the mirror of Nature does not say that the same man, with and not even " in spite of w all his idyllic sensibilities, might be disagreeable, stingy, and conceited.

Horace, who was a good judge of such matters, in his famous beatus ille qui procul negotiis puts the tenderest feeling for country life into the mouth of a Roman money-lender. Thestrongestcogni- tion that of the complete non-freedom of the human will is yet the poorest in results, for it has always had the mightiest of opponents human vanity.

A beneficial influence on friends is exerted by one man unconsciously, through his nature ; by another consciously, through isolated actions. Although the former nature is held to be the higher, the latter alone is allied to good conscience and pleasure the pleasure in justi- fication by good works, which rests upon a belief in the volitional character of our good and evil doing that is to say, upon a mistake. The injustice we have inflicted ourselves is far harder to bear than the injustice inflicted upon us by others not always from moral grounds, be it observed.

After all, the doer is always thesufferer thatis,if hebecapable of feeling the sting of conscience or of perceiving that by his action he has armed society against himself and cut himself off. For this reason we should be- ware still more of doing than of suffering injustice, for the sake of our own inward happiness so as not to lose our feeling of well-being quite apart from any consideration of the precepts of religion and morality. Not a few are skilled in the impure self-deception that enables them to transform every injustice of their own into an injustice inflicted upon them from without, and to reserve for their own acts the exceptional right to the plea of self-defence.

Their object, of course, is to make their own burden lighter. Ordinary envy is wont to cackle when the envied hen has laid an egg, thereby relieving itself and be- coming milder. But there is a yet deeper envy that in such a case becomes dead silent, desiring that every mouth should be sealed and always more and more angry because this desire is not gratified.

Silent envy grows in silence. Anger exhausts the soul and brings its very dregs to light. Hence, if we know no other means of gaining certainty, we must under- stand how to arouse anger in our dependents and adversaries, in order to learn what is really done and thought to our detriment. The sword of attack is honest and broad, the sword of defence usually runs out to a needle point. One who is openly honest towards himself ends by being rather conceited about this honesty.

He knows only too well why he is honest for the same reason that another man prefers outward show and hypocrisy. The heaping of coals of fire on another's head is generally misunderstood and falls flat, because the other knows himself to be just as much in the right, and on his side too has thought of collecting coals. Altered opinions alter not at all or very little the character of a man: We simulate pity when we wish to show ourselves superior to the feeling of animosity, but generally in vain.

This point is not noticed without a considerable enhancement of that feeling of animosity. At the moment when a man openly makes known his difference of opinion from a well-known party leader, the whole world thinks that he must be angry with the latter. Sometimes, however, he is just on the point of ceasing to be angry with him. He ventures to put himself on the same plane as his opponent, and is free from the tortures of sup- pressed envy. In the darkest hour of depression, sickness, and guilt, we are still glad to see others taking a light from us and making use of us as of the disk of the moon.

By this round- about route we derive some light from our own illu- minating faculty. But to picture to oneself the joy of others and to rejoice thereat is the highest privilege of the highest animals, and again, amongst them, is the property only of the most select specimens accordingly a rare " human thing. Those who have arrived at works and deeds are in an obscure way, they know not how, all the more pregnant with them, as if to prove supplementarily that these are their children and not those of chance. Just as justice is so often a cloak for weakness, so men who are fairly intelligent, but weak, sometimes attempt dis- simulation from ambitious motives and purposely show themselves unjust and hard, in order to leave behind them the impression of strength.

If in a large sack of profit we find a single grain of humiliation we still make a wry face even at our good luck. The fact that all that is weak and in need of help appeals to the heart induces in us the habit of designating by diminutive and softening terms all that appeals to our hearts and accordingly making such things weak and clinging to our imaginations. For, wishing to help at all costs, sympathy is in no perplexity either as to the means of assist- ance or as to the nature and cause of the disease, and goes on courageously administering all its quack medicines to restore the health and reputa- tion of the patient.

There is even an importunacy in relation to works, and the act of associating one- self from early youth on an intimate footing with the illustrious works of all times evinces an entire absence of shame. Others are only importunate from ignorance, not knowing with whom they have to do for instance classical scholars young and old in relation to the works of the Greeks. In all coolness we make reasonable plans against our passions.

Download This eBook

But we make the most serious mis- take in this connection in being often ashamed, when the design has to be carried out, of the cool- ness and calculation with which we conceived it. So we do just the unreasonable thing, from that sort of defiant magnanimity that every passion in- volves. He who takes his morality solemnly and seriously is enraged against the sceptics in the domain of morals.

For where he lavishes all his force, he wishes others to marvel but not to investigate and doubt Then there are natures whose last shred of morality is just the belief in morals. They behave in the same way towards sceptics, if possible still more passion- ately. All moralists are shy, because they know they are confounded with spies and traitors, so soon as their penchant is noticed.

Besides, they are generally conscious of being impotent in action, for in the midst of work the motives of their activity almost withdraw their attention from the work. It is an unpardonable offence when one discovers that where one was con- vinced of being loved, one is only regarded as a household utensil and decoration, whereby the master of the house can find an outlet for his vanity before his guests. What else is love but understanding and rejoicing that another lives, works, and feels in a different and opposite way to ourselves?

That love may be able to bridge over the contrasts by joys, we must not remove or deny those contrasts. Even self-love presupposes an irre- concileable duality or plurality in one person. What one sometimes does not know and feel accurately in waking hours whether one has a good or a bad conscience as regards some person is revealed completely and unambiguously by dreams.

Not joy but joylessness is the mother of debauchery. No one accuses without an underlying notion of punishment and revenge, even when he accuses his fate or himself. All complaint is accusation, all self-congratulation is praise. Whether we do one or the other, we always make some one responsible. We sometimes advance truth by a twofold injustice: Self-mistrust does not always pro- ceed uncertainly and shyly, but sometimes in a furious rage, having worked itself into a frenzy in order not to tremble. If you want to be a personality you must even hold your shadow in honour.

We must know how to emerge cleaner from unclean conditions, and, if necessary, how to wash ourselves even with dirty water. The more you let yourself go, the less others let you go. There is a slow, grad- ual path to vice and rascality of every description. In the end, the traveller is quite abandoned by the insect-swarms of a bad conscience, and although a thorough scoundrel he walks in innocence. Making plans and conceiving projects involves many agreeable sentiments. He that had the strength to be nothing but a contriver of plans all his life would be a happy man. But one must occasionally have a rest from this activity by carrying a plan into execution, and then comes anger and sobriety.

Every effi- cient man is blocked by his efficiency and cannot look out freely from its prison. Had he not also a goodly share of imperfection, he could, by reason of his virtue, never arrive at an intellectual or moral freedom. Our shortcomings are the eyes with which we see the ideal.

Similar Books

The whole way in which a man thinks of death during the prime of his life and strength is very expressive and sig- nificant for what we call his character. But the hour of death itself, his behaviour on the death-bed, is almost indifferent. The exhaustion of waning life, especially when old people die, the irregular or in- sufficient nourishment of the brain during this last period, the occasionally violent pain, the novel and untried nature of the whole position, and only too often the ebb and flow of superstitious impressions and fears, as if dying were of much consequence and meant the crossing of bridges of the most terrible kind all this forbids our using death as a testimony concerning the living.

Nor is it true that the dying man is generally more honest than the living. On the contrary, through the solemn attitude of the bystanders, the repressed or flowing streams of tears and emotions, every one is inveigled into a comedy of vanity, now conscious, now unconscious. The serious way in which every dying man is treated must have been to many a poor despised devil the highest joy of his whole life and a sort of compensa- tion and repayment for many privations.

The origin of morality may be traced to two ideas: Even if the individual suffers by an arrangement that suits the mass, even if he is depressed and ruined by it, morality must be maintained and the victim brought to the sacrifice. But the philosophy of the sacrificial victim always finds voice too late, and so victory remains with morals and morality: Hence it constantly happens that the individual makes himself into a majority by means of his morality. Science, which is certainly a very good thing, has come into the world without such a conscience and quite free from all pathos, rather clandestinely, by roundabout ways, walking with shrouded or masked face like a sinner, and always with the feeling at least of being a smuggler.

Good conscience has bad conscience for its stepping- stone, not for its opposite. For all that is good has at one time been new and consequently strange, anti-moral, immoral, and has gnawed like a worm at the heart of the fortunate discoverer. We should not shrink from treading the road to a virtue, even when we see clearly that nothing but egotism, and accordingly utility, personal comfort, fear, con- siderations of health, reputation, or glory, are the impelling motives.

These motives are styled ignoble and selfish. Very well, but if they stimulate us to some virtue for example, self-denial, dutifulness, order, thrift, measure, and moderation let us listen to them, whatever their epithets may be! For if we reach the goal to which they summon us, then the virtue we have attained, by means of the pure air it makes us breathe and the spiritual well-being it communicates, ennobles the remoter impulses of our action, and afterwards we no longer perform those actions from the same coarse motives that inspired us before.

So that is your Christianity! To annoy humanity you praise " God and His Saints," and again when you want to praise humanity you go so far that God and His Saints must be annoyed. I wish you would at least learn Christian manners, as you are so deficient in the civility of the Christian heart. A true believer must be to us an object of veneration, but the same holds good of a true, sincere, convinced unbeliever. With men of the latter stamp we are near to the high mountains where mighty rivers have their source, and with believers we are under vigorous, shady, restful trees.

Navigation menu

In both cases a man willed to die, and in both cases he let his breast be pierced by the sword in the hand of human injustice. Hence it became the lyric religion whereas in its two other creations Semitism bestowed heroico-epical religions upon the world. In the word " love " there is so much meaning, so much that stimulates and appeals to memory and hope, that even the meanest intelli- gence and the coldest heart feel some glimmering of its sense. The cleverest woman and the lowest man think of the comparatively unselfish moments of their whole life, even if with them Eros never soared high: In Christianity there is also an Epicurean trend of thought, starting from the idea that God can only demand of man, his creation and his image, what it is possible for man to fulfil, and accordingly that Christian virtue and perfection are attainable and often attained.

Now, for instance, the belief in loving one's enemies even if it is only a belief or fancy, and by no means a psychological reality a real love gives unalloyed happiness, so long as it is genuinely believed. As to the reason of this, psychologist and Christian might well differ. Thus error can make Christ's promise come true. We may be allowed to form a conjecture as to the dis- appearance of Christianity and as to the places where it will be the slowest to retreat, if we con- sider where and for what reasons Protestantism spread with such startling rapidity.

As is well known, Protestantism promised to do far more cheaply all that the old Church did, without costly masses, pilgrimages, and priestly pomp and circum- stance. It spread particularly among the Northern nations, which were not so deeply rooted as those of the South in the old Church's symbolism and love of ritual. In the South the more powerful pagan religion survived in Christianity, whereas in the North Christianity meant an opposition to and a break with the old-time creed, and hence was from the first more thoughtful and less sensual, but for that very reason, in times of peril, more fanatical and more obstinate.

If from the stand- point of thought we succeed in uprooting Christi- anity, we can at once know the point where it will begin to disappear the very point at which it will be most stubborn in defence. In other places it will bend but not break, lose its leaves but burst into leaf afresh, because the senses, and not thought, have gone over to its side. Yet what does one hold leisure or semi-idleness to be worth, when once one has be- come accustomed to it? The senses plead against a dechristianised world, saying that there would be too much work to do in it and an insufficient supply of leisure.

They take the part of magic that is, they let God work himself oremus nos, Deus laboret. There is no book that contains in such abundance or expresses so faithfully all that man occasionally finds salutary ecstatic inward happiness, ready for sacrifice or death in the belief in and contemplation of his truth as the book that tells of Christ.

From that book a clever man may learn all the means whereby a book can be made into a world-book, a vade-mecum for all, and especially that master-means of representing every- thing as discovered, nothing as future and uncertain. All influential books try to leave the same impres- sion, as if the widest intellectual horizon were cir- cumscribed here and as if about the sun that shines here every constellation visible at present or in the future must revolve.

Must not then all purely scientific books be poor in influence on the same grounds as such books are rich in influence? Is not the book fated to live humble and among humble folk, in order to be crucified in the end and never resurrected? Can any religion demand more self-denial and draw the selfish out of themselves more inexorably than science? This and similar things we may say, in any case with a certain theatricality, when we have to defend ourselves against believers, for it is impossible to conduct a defence without a certain amount of theatricality.

But between ourselves our language must be more honest, and we employ a freedom that those be- lievers are not even allowed, in their own interests, to understand. Away, then, with the monastic cowl of self-denial, with the appearance of humility! Much more and much better so rings our truth! If science were not linked with the pleasure of knowledge, the utility of the thing known, what should we care for science?

If a little faith, love, and hope did not lead our souls to knowledge, what would attract us to science? And if in science the ego means nothing, still the inventive, happy ego, every upright and industrious ego, means a great deal in the republic of the men of science. The homage of those who pay homage, the joy of those whom we wish well or honour, in some cases glory and a fair share of immortality, is the personal reward for every suppression of personality: If we had not remained in some degree unscientific, what would science matter to us?

We are content with less. But should one of them cry out to us: But you, if your faith makes you happy, show yourselves to be happy. Your faces have always done more harm to your faith than our reasons!

If that glad message of your Bible were written in your faces, you would not need to de- mand belief in the authority of that book in such stiff-necked fashion. Your words, your actions should continually make the Bible superfluous in fact, through you a new Bible should continually come into being. As it is, your apologia for Christianity is rooted in your unchristianity, and with your defence you write your own condemna- tion. If you, however, should wish to emerge from your dissatisfaction with Christianity, you should ponder over the experience of two thousand years, which, clothed in the modest form of a question, may be voiced as follows: Nor should this be so done as if the poet, like an imaginative political economist, had to anticipate a more favourable national and social state of things and picture their realisation.

Rather will he, just as the earlier poets portrayed the images of the Gods, portray the fair images of men. He will divine those cases where, in the midst of our modern world and reality which will not be shirked or repudiated in the usual poetic fashion , a great, noble soul is still possible, where it may be embodied in harmonious, equable conditions, where it may become perma- nent, visible, and representative of a type, and so, by the stimulus to imitation and envy, help to create the future.

The poems of such a poet would be distinguished by appearing secluded and protected from the heated atmosphere of the passions. The irremediable failure, the shattering of all the strings of the human instrument, the scornful laughter and gnashing of teeth, and all tragedy and comedy in the usual old sense, would appear by the side of this new art as mere archaic lumber, a blurring of the outlines of the world-picture.

Strength, kind- ness, gentleness, purity, and an unsought, innate moderation in the personalities and their action: Many roads to this poetry of the future start from Goethe, but the quest needs good pathfinders and above all a far greater strength than is possessed by modern poets, who unscrupulously represent the half-animal and the immaturity and intemperance that are mistaken by them for power and naturalness. But it can be a tragic and also a comic finale.

If the beautiful is to be identified with that which gives pleasure and thus sang the Muses once the useful is often the necessary circuitous path to the beautiful, and has a perfect right to spurn the short-sighted censure of men who live for the moment, who will not wait, and who think "that they can reach all good things without ever taking a circuitous path.

In any case he has but a limited measure of strength, and how could the proportion of strength that he spends on himself be of any benefit to his work or vice versa? If we have sat- isfied the best people of our time with our art, it is a sign that we shall not satisfy the best people of the succeeding period.

We have indeed " lived for all time," and the applause of the best people ensures our fame. If we are of one substance with a book or a work of art, we think in our heart of hearts that it must be excellent, and are offended if others find it ugly, over-spiced, or pretentious. That speech is not given to us to communicate our emotions may be seen from the fact that all simple men are ashamed to seek for words to express their deeperfeelings.

After all, among poets, to whom God generally denies this shame, the more noble are more mono- syllabic in the language of emotion, and evince a certain constraint: He that has not for a long time been completely weaned from an art, and is still always at home in it, has no idea how small a privation it is to live without that art. A work that is meant to give an impression of health should be produced with three-quarters, at the most, of the strength of its creator.

If he has gone to his farthest limit, the work excites the observer and disconcerts him by its tension. All good things have some-: As refined fare serves a hungry man as well as and no better than coarser food, the more pretentious artist will not dream of inviting the hungry man to his meal.

The pirate-genius in art, who even knows how to deceive subtle minds, arises when some one unscrupulously and from youth up- wards regards all good things, that are not protected by law, as the property of a particular person, as his legitimate spoil. Now all the good things of past ages and masters lie free around us, hedged about and protected by the reverential awe of the few who know them. To these few our robber-genius, by the force of his impudence, bids defiance and ac- cumulates for himself a wealth that once more calls forth homage and awe.

In the gar- dens of modern poetry it will clearly be observed that the sewers of great towns are too near. With the fragrance of flowers is mingled something that betrays abomination and putrescence. With pain I ask: Are you obliged to dress your noble goddess in a hood of devilry and caricature? But whence this necessity, this obligation? No one has ever explained why the Greek writers, having at com- mand such an unparalleled wealth and power of language, made so sparing a use of their resources that every post-classical Greek book appears by comparison crude, over-coloured, and extravagant.

It is said that towards the North Polar ice and in the hottest countries salt is becoming less and less used, whereas on the other hand the dwellers on the plains and by the coast in the more temper- ate zones use salt in great abundance. Is it possible that the Greeks from a twofold reason because their intellect was colder and clearer but their fun- damental passionate nature far more tropical than ours did not need salt and spice to the same extent that we do? In a book for free spirits one cannot avoid mention of Laurence Sterne, the man whom Goethe honoured as the freest spirit of his century.

May he be satisfied with the honour of being called the freest writer of all times, in com- parison with whom all others appear stiff, square- toed, intolerant, and downright boorish! In his case we should not speak of the clear and rounded but of "the endless melody" if by this phrase we arrive at a name for an artistic style in which the definite form is continually broken, thrust aside and trans- ferred to the realm of the indefinite, so that it signifies one and the other at the same time. We may give up for lost the reader who always wants to know exactly what Sterne thinks about a matter, and whether he be making a serious or a smiling face for he can do both with one wrinkling of his features ; he can be and even wishes to be right and wrong at the same moment, to interweave profundity and farce.

His digressions are at once continuations and further developments of the story, his maxims contain a satire on all that is sententious, his dislike of seriousness is bound up with a disposition to take no matter merely externally and on the surface. So in the proper reader he arouses a feeling of uncertainty whether he be walking, lying, or standing, a feeling most closely akin to that of floating in the air. He, the most versatile of writers, communicates some- thing of this versatility to his reader.

Yes, Sterne unexpectedly changes the parts, and is often as much reader as author, his book being like a pi-ay within a play, a theatre audience before another theatre audi- ence. We must surrender at discretion to the mood of Sterne, although we can always expect it to be gracious. It is strangely instructive to see how so great a writer as Diderot has affected this double entendre of Sterne's to be equally ambiguous throughout is just the Sternian super-humour.

Did Diderot imitate, admire, ridicule, or parody Sterne in hisfacgues le Fatalistel One cannot be exactly certain, and this uncertainty was perhaps intended by the author. For humour and especially for this humorous attitude towards humour itself the French are too serious. Is it necessary to add that of all great authors Sterne is the worst model, in fact the inimitable author, and that even Diderot had to pay for his daring?

What the worthy Frenchmen and before them some Greeks and Romans aimed at and attained in prose is the very opposite of what Sterne aims at and attains. He raises himself as a masterly exception above all that artists in writing demand of them- selves propriety, reserve, character, steadfastness of purpose, comprehensiveness, perspicuity, good deportment in gait and feature. Unfortunately Sterne the man seems to have been only too closely, related to Sterne the writer.

His squirrel-soul' sprang with insatiable unrest from branch to branch ; he knew what lies between sublimity and rascality ; he had sat on every seat, always with un- abashed watery eyes and mobile play of feature. He was if language does not revolt from such a combination of a hard-hearted kindness, and in the midst of the joys of a grotesque and even cor- rupt imagination he showed the bashful grace of innocence.

Such a carnal and spiritual hermaphro- ditism, such untrammelled wit penetrating into every vein and muscle, was perhaps never possessed by any other man. If it is certain, however, that superficiality in psychological observation has laid, and still lays, the most dangerous snares for human judgments and conclusions, then there is need now of that endurance of work which does not grow weary of piling stone upon stone, pebble on pebble; there is need of courage not to be ashamed of such humble work and to turn a deaf ear to scorn.

And this is also true,—numberless single observations on the human and all-too-human have first been discovered, and given utterance to, in circles of society which were accustomed to offer sacrifice therewith to a clever desire to please, and not to scientific knowledge,—and the odour of that old home of the moral maxim, a very seductive odour, has attached itself almost inseparably to the whole species, so that on its account the scientific man involuntarily betrays a certain distrust of this species and its earnestness.

But it is sufficient to point to the consequences, for already it begins to be seen what results of a serious kind spring from the ground of psychological observation. What, after all, is the principal axiom to which the boldest and coldest thinker, the author of the book On the Origin of Moral Sensations, [5] has attained by means of his incisive and decisive analyses of human actions? Science, however, has no consideration for ultimate purposes, any more than Nature has, but just as the latter occasionally achieves things of the greatest suitableness without intending to do so, so also true science, as the imitator of nature in ideas , will occasionally and in many ways further the usefulness and welfare of man,— but also without intending to do so.

But whoever feels too chilled by the breath of such a reflection has perhaps too little fire in himself; let him look around him meanwhile and he will become aware of illnesses which have need of ice-poultices, and of men who are so " kneaded together " of heat and spirit that they can hardly find an atmosphere that is cold and biting enough. Moreover, as individuals and nations that are too serious have need of frivolities, as others too mobile and excitable have need occasionally of heavily oppressing burdens for the sake of their health, should not we, the more intellectual people of this age, that grows visibly more and more inflamed, seize all quenching and cooling means that exist, in order that we may at least remain as constant, harmless, and moderate as we still are, and thus, perhaps, serve some time or other as mirror and self-contemplation for this age?

First, all single actions are called good or bad without any regard to their motives, but only on account of the useful or injurious consequences which result for the community. But soon the origin of these distinctions is forgotten, and it is deemed that the qualities " good " or " bad " are contained in the action itself without regard to its consequences, by the same error according to which language describes the stone as hard,the tree as green,—with which, in short, the result is regarded as the cause.

Then the goodness or badness is implanted in the motive, and the action in itself is looked upon as morally ambiguous. Mankind even goes further, and applies the predicate good or bad no longer to single motives, but to the whole nature of an individual, out of whom the motive grows as the plant grows out of the earth. Thus, in turn, man is made responsible for his operations, then for his actions, then for his motives, and finally for his nature. Eventually it is discovered that even this nature cannot be responsible, inasmuch as it is an absolutely necessary consequence concreted out of the elements and influences of past and present things,—that man, therefore, cannot be made responsible for anything, neither for his nature, nor his motives, nor his actions, nor his effects.

It has therewith come to be recognised that the history of moral valuations is at the same time the history of an error, the error of responsibility, which is based upon the error of the freedom of will. Schopenhauer thus decided against it: From the esse , the sphere of freedom and responsibility, there results, in his opinion, the operari , the sphere of strict causality, necessity, and irresponsibility.

This ill humour is apparently directed to the operari ,—in so far it is erroneous,—but in reality it is directed to the esse , which is the deed of a free will, the fundamental cause of the existence of an individual, man becomes that which he wishes to be, his will is anterior to his existence. But the ill humour after the deed is not necessarily reasonable, indeed it is assuredly not reasonable, for it is based upon the erroneous presumption that the action need not have inevitably followed.

Therefore, it is only because man believes himself to be free, not because he is free, that he experiences remorse and pricks of conscience. Moreover, this ill humour is a habit that can be broken off; in many people it is entirely absent in connection with actions where others experience it. It is a very changeable thing, and one which is connected with the development of customs and culture, and probably only existing during a comparatively short period of the world's history. This also applies when an individual judges himself. The theory is as clear as sunlight, and yet every one prefers to go back into the shadow and the untruth, for fear of the consequences.

Without the errors which lie in the assumption of morality, man would have remained an animal. Thus, however, he has considered himself as something higher and has laid strict laws upon himself. Therefore he hates the grades which have remained nearer to animalness, whereby the former scorn of the slave, as a not-yet-man, is to be explained as a fact. But if one were to imagine a man of eighty thousand years, one would have in him an absolutely changeable character, so that a number of different individuals would gradually develop out of him.

The shortness of human life misleads us into forming many erroneous ideas about the qualities of man. To prefer a lesser good for instance, the gratification of the senses to a more highly valued good for instance, health is accounted immoral, and also to prefer luxury to liberty. They are backward people whose brains, through all manner of accidents in the course of inheritance, have not been developed in so delicate and manifold a way.

They show us what we all were and horrify us, but they themselves are as little responsible as is a block of granite for being granite. There must, too, be grooves and twists in our brains which answer to that condition of mind, as in the form of certain human organs there are supposed to be traces of a fish-state. But these grooves and twists are no longer the bed through which the stream of our sensation flows. It is a milder form of revenge. Without the satisfaction of gratitude, the powerful man would have shown himself powerless, and would have been reckoned as such ever after.

Therefore every society of the good, which originally meant the powerful, places gratitude amongst the first duties. As a good man one is reckoned among the "good," a community which has common feelings because the single individuals are bound to one another by the sense of requital. As a bad man one belongs to the "bad," to a party of subordinate, powerless people who have no common feeling. The good are a caste, the bad are a mass like dust. Good and bad have for a long time meant the same thing as noble and base, master and slave.

On the other hand, the enemy is not looked upon as evil, he can requite.

In Homer the Trojan and the Greek are both good. It is not the one who injures us, but the one who is despicable, who is called bad. Then in the soul of the oppressed and powerless. The signs of goodness, helpfulness, pity, are looked upon with fear as spite, the prelude to a terrible result, stupefaction and out-witting,—in short, as refined malice.

With such a disposition in the individual a community could hardly exist, or at most it could exist only in its crudest form, so that in all places where this conception of good and evil obtains, the downfall of the single individuals, of their tribes and races, is at hand. For instance, we are more pained when one of our friends is guilty of something shameful than when we do it ourselves.

For one thing, we have more faith in the purity of his character than he has himself; then our love for him, probably on account of this very faith, is stronger than his love for himself. And even if his egoism suffers more thereby than our egoism, inasmuch as it has to bear more of the bad consequences of his fault, the un-egoistic in us—this word is not to be taken too seriously, but only as a modification of the expression—is more deeply wounded by his guilt than is the un-egoistic in him.

Thus there is also a Christian hypochondria, which afflicts those solitary, religiously-minded people who keep constantly before their eyes the sufferings and death of Christ. The economy of goodness is the dream of the most daring Utopians. Kindliness, friendliness, the courtesy of the heart, are ever-flowing streams of un-egoistic impulses, and have given far more powerful assistance to culture than even those much more famous demonstrations which are called pity, mercy, and self-sacrifice.

But they are thought little of, and, as a matter of fact, there is not much that is un-egoistic in them. The sum of these small doses is nevertheless mighty, their united force is amongst the strongest forces. Thus one finds much more happiness in the world than sad eyes see, if one only reckons rightly, and does not forget all those moments of comfort in which every day is rich, even in the most harried of human lives. Certainly we should exhibit pity, but take good care not to feel it, for the unfortunate are so stupid that to them the exhibition of pity is the greatest good in the world.

One can, perhaps, give a more forcible warning against this feeling of pity if one looks upon that need of the unfortunate not exactly as stupidity and lack of intellect, a kind of mental derangement which misfortune brings with it and as such, indeed, La Rochefoucauld appears to regard it , but as something quite different and more serious. There is a powerful charm of life in such countless but very small doses in which malice makes itself felt, just as goodwill, spread in the same way throughout the world, is the ever-ready means of healing.

But are there many honest people who will admit that it is pleasing to give pain? If any one long and obstinately desires to appear something, he finds it difficult at last to be anything else. The profession of almost every individual, even of the artist, begins with hypocrisy, with an imitating from without, with a copying of the effective. He who always wears the mask of a friendly expression must eventually obtain a power over well-meaning dispositions without which the expression of friendliness is not to be compelled,—and finally, these, again, obtain a power over him, he is well-meaning.

There must be self-deception in order that this and that may produce great effects. For men believe in the truth of everything that is visibly, strongly believed in. Thus the child believes in its parents' judgment, the Christian in the assertions of the Founder of the Church. But what is really meant is that when a man has honestly believed in something, and has fought and died for his faith, it would really be too unjust if he had only been inspired by an error.

But,firstly,because it is more convenient, as falsehood requires invention, deceit, and memory. What if it were necessary to live thus? This is the terrible question which their aspect brings to the lips. Thus we speak of the cunning and the infamous art of the Jesuits, but overlook the self-control which every individual Jesuit practises, and the fact that the lightened manner of life preached by Jesuit books is by no means for their benefit, but for that of the laity.

We may even ask whether, with precisely similar tactics and organisation, we enlightened ones would make equally good tools, equally admirable through self-conquest, indefatigableness, and renunciation. In order to understand ourselves we must understand it ; but then, in order to mount higher we must rise above it. He who does not desire much more from things than a knowledge of them easily makes peace with his soul, and will make a mistake or commit a sin, as the world calls it at the most from ignorance, but hardly from covetousness.

Moreover, he has been freed from a number of tormenting conceptions, he has no more feeling at the mention of the words " punishments of hell," " sinfulness," " incapacity for good," he recognises in them only the vanishing shadow-pictures of false views of the world and of life. The loving girl wishes she could prove the self-sacrificing faithfulness of her love by the unfaithfulness of her beloved.

The mother gives to the child that of which she deprives herself—sleep, the best food, sometimes her health and fortune. But are all these un-egoistic conditions? Are these deeds of morality miracles , because, to use Schopenhauer's expression, they are " impossible and yet performed "? Is it not clear that in all four cases the individual loves something of himself , a thought, a desire, a production, better than anything else of himself ; that he therefore divides his nature and to one part sacrifices all the rest?

Is it something entirely different when an obstinate man says, " I would rather be shot than move a step out of my way for this man "? The promise to love some one for ever is, therefore, really: One promises therefore, the continuation of the semblance of love, when, without self-deception, one speaks vows of eternal love. One must have a strong power of imagination to be able to feel pity.

So closely is morality bound to the goodness of the intellect. Both estimates are short-sighted. Is it something so very extraordinary? In all duels advising friends have one thing to decide, namely whether the parties concerned can still wait awhile; if this is not the case, then a duel is advisable, inasmuch as each of the two says,"Either I continue to live and that other man must die immediately, or vice versa. But as mean natures are numerous, and since it is very important whether they possess that thoroughness or lose it, hence—.

It is a piece of rough civilisation to force some one into silence by the exhibition of physical savageness and the inspiring of fear. He first gave offence, then aroused suspicion, was then gradually excluded from society and declared a social outlaw, until at last justice remembered such an abandoned creature, on occasions when it would otherwise have had no eyes, or would have closed them. The lack of power to hold his tongue concerning the common secret, and the irresponsible tendency to see what no one wishes to see—himself—brought him to a prison and an early death.

For the motives and intentions are seldom sufficiently clear and simple, and sometimes memory itself seems clouded by the consequences of the deed, so that one ascribes the deed to false motives or looks upon unessential motives as essential. Success often gives an action the whole honest glamour of a good conscience; failure casts the shadow of remorse over the most estimable deed. Hence arises the well-known practice of the politician, who thinks, "Only grant me success, with that I bring all honest souls over to my side and make myself honest in my own eyes. Many educated people still believe that the triumph of Christianity over Greek philosophy is a proof of the greater truthfulness of the former,—although in this case it is only the coarser and more powerful that has triumphed over the more spiritual and delicate.

Which possesses the greater truth may be seen from the fact that the awakening sciences have agreed with Epicurus ' philosophy on point after point, but on point after point have rejected Christianity. Is it not visibly more stupid than justice? Certainly, but precisely for that reason all the pleasanter for every one.

It is blind, and possesses an abundant cornucopia, out of which it distributes its gifts to all, even if they do not deserve them, even if they express no thanks for them. It is as impartial as the rain, which, according to the Bible and experience, makes not only the unjust, but also occasionally the just wet through to the skin.

It is the coldness of the judges, the painful preparations, the conviction that a human being is here being used as a warning to scare others. For the guilt is not punished, even if it existed—it lies with educators, parents, surroundings, in ourselves, not in the murderer—I mean the determining circumstances. It was the gift of the gods to men, outwardly a beautiful and seductive gift, and called the Casket of Happiness. Out of it flew all the evils, living winged creatures, thence they now circulate and do men injury day and night.

One single evil had not yet escaped from the box, and by the will of Zeus Pandora closed the lid and it remained within. Zeus did not wish man, however much he might be tormented by the other evils, to fling away his life, but to go on letting himself be tormented again and again. Therefore he gives man hope,—in reality it is the worst of all evils, because it prolongs the torments of man. They recognised this, and on the ground of these qualities they made a hero of him, and finally even a martyr.

Hence it is possible for two virtuous persons not to understand each other at all. Thereby we multiply the valuation of things which are thus loved, or for which we sacrifice ourselves, although perhaps they are not worth much in themselves. A brave army is convinced of the cause for which it fights. The ambitious manage without it, with almost the same results.

For this reason the sons of unpretentious, unambitious families, when once they lose the moral sense, generally degenerate very quickly into complete scamps. Thus, however, it resembles a well-stocked and constantly replenished bazaar which attracts buyers of every kind. There they can find almost everything, obtain almost everything, provided that they bring the right sort of coin, namely admiration. Suicide in this case is a perfectly natural, obvious action, which should justly arouse respect as a triumph of reason, and did arouse it in those times when the heads of Greek philosophy and the sturdiest patriots used to seek death through suicide.

The seeking, on the contrary, to prolong existence from day to day, with anxious consultation of doctors and painful mode of living, without the power of drawing nearer to the actual aim of life, is far less worthy. Religion is rich in excuses to reply to the demand for suicide, and thus it ingratiates itself with those who wish to cling to life.

They each have a mistaken idea of the other. The injustice of the powerful, which, more than anything else, rouses indignation in history, is by no means so great as it appears. It is the same thing in the case of unjust judges, of the journalist who leads public opinion astray by small dishonesties. Only where the good opinion of men is of importance to some one, apart from the advantage thereof or his wish to please, can we speak of vanity.

In this case the man wishes to please himself, but at the expense of his fellow-men, either by misleading them into holding a false opinion about him, or by aiming at a degree of " good opinion " which must be painful to every one else by arousing envy. The interest in himself, the wish to please himself, attains to such a height in a vain man that he misleads others into having a false, all too elevated estimation of him, and yet nevertheless sets store by their authority,—thus causing an error and yet believing in it.

It must be confessed, therefore, that vain people do not wish to please others so much as themselves, and that they go so far therein as to neglect their advantage, for they often endeavour to prejudice their fellow - men unfavourably, inimicably, enviously, consequently injuriously against themselves, merely in order to have pleasure in themselves, personal pleasure. Only think what a sea of pleasant tears has been shed over descriptions of noble and unselfish deeds!

This charm of life would vanish if the belief in absolute irresponsibility were to obtain supremacy. Each party satisfies the other, as each obtains what he values more than the other. Each one receives that which he desires, as his own henceforth, and whatever is desired is received in return. Justice, therefore, is recompense and exchange based on the hypothesis of a fairly equal degree of power,—thus, originally, revenge belongs to the province of justice, it is an exchange.

How little moral would the world look without this forgetfulness! A poet might say that God had placed forgetfulness as door-keeper in the temple of human dignity. Therefore there is a kind of equalisation here, on the basis of which rights may be determined. The enemy has his advantage in maintaining it. In so far there are also rights between slaves and masters, that is, precisely so far as the possession of the slave is useful and important to his master.

The right originally extends so far as one appears to be valuable to the other, essentially unlosable, unconquerable, and so forth. In so far the weaker one also has rights, but lesser ones. Hence the famous unusquisque tantum juris habet, quantum potentia valet or more exactly, quantum potentia valere creditur. Is not an important change in these views impending, now when it is more and more recognised that it is precisely in the most personal possible considerations that the common good is the greatest, so that a strictly personal action now best illustrates the present idea of morality, as utility for the mass?

To make a whole personality out of ourselves, and in all that we do to keep that personality's highest good in view, carries us further than those sympathetic emotions and actions for the benefit of others. We are still willing to work for our fellow-men, but only so far as we find our own greatest advantage in this work, no more and no less. It is only a question of what we understand as our advantage ; the unripe, undeveloped, crude individual will understand it in the crudest way. Whether we submit with difficulty or willingly is immaterial, enough that we do so.

He is called " good " who, as if naturally, after long precedent, easily and willingly, therefore, does what is right, according to whatever this may be as, for instance, taking revenge, if to take revenge be considered as right, as amongst the ancient Greeks. He is called good because he is good "for something"; but as goodwill, pity, consideration, moderation, and such like, have come, with the change in manners, to be looked upon as " good for something," as useful, the good-natured and helpful have, later on, come to be distinguished specially as " good. To be evil is to be " not moral " immoral , to be immoral is to be in opposition to tradition, however sensible or stupid it may be; injury to the community the "neighbour" being understood thereby has, however, been looked upon by the social laws of all different ages as being eminently the actual "immorality," so that now at the word "evil" we immediately think of voluntary injury to one's neighbour.

The fundamental antithesis which has taught man the distinction between moral and immoral, between good and evil, is not the " egoistic " and " un-egoistic," but the being bound to the tradition, law, and solution thereof. Man does what is habitual to him more easily, better, and therefore more willingly; he feels a pleasure therein, and knows from experience that the habitual has been tested, and is therefore useful; a custom that we can live with is proved to be wholesome and advantageous in contrast to all new and not yet tested experiments.

As soon as man can use compulsion, he uses it to introduce and enforce his customs ; for in his eyes they are proved as the wisdom of life. In the same way a company of individuals compels each single one to adopt the same customs. It is not known that the same degree of well-being can also exist with other customs, and that even higher degrees may be attained.

We become aware, however, that all customs, even the hardest, grow pleasanter and milder with time, and that the severest way of life may become a habit and therefore a pleasure. Perhaps he has already taken too many of the pleasures of this sphere from animals, which visibly feel pleasure when they play with each other, especially the mother with her young.

Then consider the sexual relations, which make almost every female interesting to a male with regard to pleasure, and vice versa. Upon this foundation is based the oldest alliance, the object of which is the mutual obviating and averting of a threatening danger for the benefit of each individual. And thus the social instinct grows out of pleasure. In the social condition before the State we kill the creature, be it ape or man, who tries to take from us the fruit of a tree when we are hungry and approach the tree, as we should still do with animals in inhospitable countries.

The evil actions which now most rouse our indignation, are based upon the error that he who causes them has a free will, that he had the option, therefore, of not doing us this injury. This belief in option arouses hatred, desire for revenge, spite, and the deterioration of the whole imagination, while we are much less angry with an animal because we consider it irresponsible.

To do injury, not from the instinct of preservation, but as requital , is the consequence of a false judgment and therefore equally innocent. The individual can in the condition which lies before the State, act sternly and cruelly towards other creatures for the purpose of terrifying , to establish his existence firmly by such terrifying proofs of his power.

Thus act the violent, the mighty, the original founders of States, who subdue the weaker to themselves. They have the right to do so, such as the State still takes for itself; or rather, there is no right that can hinder this. The ground for all morality can only be made ready when a stronger individual or a collective individual, for instance society or the State, subdues the single individuals, draws them out of their singleness, and forms them into an association. Compulsion precedes morality, indeed morality itself is compulsion for a time, to which one submits for the avoidance of pain.

Later on it becomes custom,—later still, free obedience, and finally almost instinct, then, like everything long accustomed and natural, it is connected with pleasure—and is henceforth called virtue. Everywhere were found bounded domains to which access was forbidden by divine right, except under certain conditions; at first locally, as, for example, certain spots that ought not to be trodden by the feet of the uninitiated, in the neighbourhood of which these latter experienced horror and fear.

In Turkish this room is on this account called harem, " sanctuary," and is distinguished with the same name, therefore, that is used for the entrance courts of the mosques. Thus the kingdom is as a centre from which radiate power and glory, to the subjects a mystery full of secrecy and shame, of which many after-effects may still be felt among nations which otherwise do not by any means belong to the bashful type.

The injustice in slavery, the cruelty in the suppression of persons and nations, is not to be measured by our standard. For the instinct of justice was not then so far developed. Who dares to reproach the Genevese Calvin with the burning of the physician Servet? Besides, what is the burning of a single individual compared with eternal pains of hell for almost all! And yet this idea was universal at that time, without essentially injuring by its dreadfulness the conception of a God. With us, too, political sectarians are hardly and cruelly treated, but because one is accustomed to believe in the necessity of the State, the cruelty is not so deeply felt here as it is where we repudiate the views.

Cruelty to animals in children and Italians is due to ignorance, i. Most princes and military heads, through lack of imagination, easily appear hard and cruel without really being so. We have yet to learn that others suffer, and this can never be completely learnt. But this distinction is an error. All morals allow intentional injury in the case of necessity , that is, when it is a matter of self-preservation! Socrates and Plato are right: All teasing, even, shows the pleasure it gives to exercise our power on others and bring it to an I enjoyable feeling of preponderance.

Is it immoral to taste pleasure at the expense of another's pain? Is malicious joy [6] devilish, as Schopenhauer says? We give ourselves pleasure in nature by breaking off twigs, loosening stones, fighting with wild animals, and do this in order to become thereby conscious of our strength. Is the knowledge, therefore, that another suffers through us, the same thing concerning which we otherwise feel irresponsible, supposed to make us immoral?

But if we did not know this we would not thereby have the enjoyment of our own superiority, which can only manifest itself by the suffering of others, for instance, in teasing. From the point of view of usefulness alone, that is, out of consideration for the consequences , for possible displeasure, when the injured one or the replacing State gives the expectation of resentment and revenge: Pity aims just as little at the pleasure of others as malice at the pain of others per se.

If, besides this, a suffering person is very dear to us, we lift a sorrow from ourselves by the exercise of sympathetic actions. Except by a few philosophers, pity has always been placed very low in the scale of moral feelings, and rightly so. In unintentional injury, of course, there can be nothing immoral, that is ruled by chance.

Is there, then, a kind of intentional injury where our existence or the preservation of our comfort is not concerned? Is there an injuring out of pure malice , for instance in cruelty? But do we ever know entirely how an action hurts another? We conclude by analogy that something hurts somebody, and through memory and the strength of imagination we may suffer from it ourselves. But still what a difference there is between toothache and the pain pity that the sight of toothache calls forth!

Whether the individual so fights this fight that men call him good, or so that they call him evil, is determined by the measure and the constitution of his intellect. For he who is punished does not deserve the punishment, he is only used as a means of henceforth warning away from certain actions; equally so, he who is rewarded does not merit this reward, he could not act otherwise than he did. Hence we must say, " The wise man gives no reward because the deed has been well done," just as we have said, " The wise man does not punish because evil has been committed, but in order that evil shall not be committed.

The delusion of the acting agent about himself, the supposition of a free will, belongs to this mechanism which still remains to be calculated.

Human, All-Too-Human: A Book for Free Spirits, Part II

Here Nietzsche criticizes Darwin, as he frequently does, as naive and derivative of Hobbes and early English economists and without an account of life from the "inside. Wherever progress is to ensue, deviating natures are of greatest importance. Every progress of the whole must be preceded by a partial weakening. The strongest natures retain the type, the weaker ones help to advance it. Something similar also happens in the individual. There is rarely a degeneration, a truncation, or even a vice or any physical or "moral" loss without an advantage somewhere else.

In a warlike and restless clan, for example, the sicklier man may have occasion to be alone, and may therefore become quieter and wiser; the one-eyed man will have one eye the stronger; the blind man may see deeper inwardly, and certainly hear better. To this extent, the famous theory of the survival of the fittest does not seem to be the only viewpoint from which to explain the progress of strengthening of a man or of a race. The essential thing to keep in mind in considering Zarathustra, in particular, is that Nietzsche presents Zarathustra as failing. These two sections are made up of very short aphorisms on men's, women's and the child's nature or their "evolution," in Nietzsche's subtle, anti-Darwinian sense.

Like sections six and seven, Nietzsche's aphorisms here are mostly short, but also poetic and at times could be interpreted as semi-autobiographical, in anticipation of the next volumes: Nietzsche also distinguishes the obscurantism of the metaphysicians and theologians from the more subtle obscurantism of Kant 's critical philosophy and modern philosophical skepticism , claiming that obscurantism is that which obscures existence rather than obscures ideas alone: Within his lifetime, prior to his mental breakdown in , few of Nietzsche's books sold particularly well, and Human, All Too Human was no exception.

The first installment was originally printed in 1, copies in , and sold only of these, and still less than half of these by when it was resold as the complete two-volume set. Kerr - a small but notable publishing house of socially progressive literature [18]. Following this, a translation by writer Helen Zimmern as part of a complete edition of Nietzsche's books in English, but was never translated by Walter Kaufmann when he translated most of Nietzsche's works into English in the s and '60s.

Finally, in the s the first part was translated by Marion Faber and completely translated by R. Hollingdale the same decade. Marion Faber was critical of Zimmern's " antiquated Victorian style" which made Nietzsche "sound in her translation like a fusty contemporary of Matthew Arnold. Most notoriously, Human, All Too Human was used by archivist Max Oehler , a strong supporter of Hitler , as supposed evidence of Nietzsche's support for nationalism and anti-Semitism, both of which he writes against.

Oehler wrote an entire book, Friedrich Nietzsche und die Deutsche Zukunft , dealing with Nietzsche and his connection to nationalism specifically National Socialism and anti-Semitism, using quotes from Human, All Too Human , though out of context. It wasn't until much of Walter Kaufmann's work in the s through the s that Nietzsche was able to shed this connection with nationalism and anti-Semitism.

• Meditation On The Words Of Jesus in Matthew
• A Picture of Guilt: The Ellie Foreman Mystery Series #2 (The Ellie Foreman Mysteries)
• SteamDrunks: 101 Steampunk Cocktails and Mixed Drinks
• Faith - The Currency of Heaven
• Little Beak (Adventures of Little Beak Book 1)
• Horace the Great Harmonica King